


(what is it you want?) i'll give you the moon

by opheliahyde



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Christmas Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Season Three, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:37:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9059896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliahyde/pseuds/opheliahyde
Summary: Post-S3, canon-divergent, Rebuilding in the aftermath of war takes time and effort, Seth and Richie take a few moments to breathe at Christmas.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _holiday traditions_ on tumblr. Thank you darling Gamze for giving me the excuse to write this story that's been living in my brain in one permutation or another for the better part of two years. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Un-beta'ed, so all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Title taken from _It's A Wonderful Life_ (1946).

The tree is skinny and small and needle-bare, set against the open picture window Seth wanted put in when they built the house (they argued over that—the window, like the tile in the kitchen, in the bathroom; Seth won the window, Richie won the tile, with promises of installing a sun-blocking shade for the daytime, for privacy, but in the evenings it was open, for them to look out and others to look in), displayed there for all to see—their street isn’t busy, a new neighborhood, a growing neighborhood but quiet, lots far and few between.

The tree lot manager tried to talk them out of it, haggled with Seth when he flashed the wad of cash in his wallet when he dug out the pair of twenties he was forking over the ugliest of the bunch.

( _we have room_ , Richie had whispered, nudging him towards fuller trees, with lush branches, reaching higher than their heads, grander trees, _we have the money_ —but Seth had waved him off, hunting for the one nobody will take home; his brother, a sucker for strays, for the unwanted)

It looks like it might break under the weight of the decorations Seth dresses the tree in—tangled strings of lights, multi-colored and twinkling, rows of garland adding thickness where the tree lacked, red and gold and blue, almost garish. Seth hung ornaments in haphazard arrangement, bending branches in places, but somehow all fits together, a mess of Christmas thrown up all over the poor tree, familiar and warm, aching in his chest when Richie looks at it, Seth crossing his arms beside it, mouth upturned at the corner, a light returning to his eyes after months of endless black.

“Not bad, huh?” Seth says, moving to stand beside Richie, knocking shoulders.

(Richie remembers their first tree—not the very first one, with Uncle Eddie putting it up, fake and cheap but miraculous, helping them decorate it, Seth almost twelve goddamn years old and never having a Christmas tree—the first one he and Seth nabbed for themselves, real and cheap, dragging it all the way back to their grungy apartment on foot, dressing it in dollar store goods, not feeling right stealing decorations from department stores, not during the season;

he remembers every one after that, every one that mattered, same spindly branches, not pine trees at all but some kind of sad shrubs Seth convinced him to buy by mistake—same every year, no matter how much cash they had to spare)

“Looks good, brother,” he tells him, reaching up to ruffle his hair, but strokes through the thick strands instead, rubbing his scalp down to the back of his neck—squeezing Seth there, quick and soft.

 

 

The Chinese food grows cold in its cardboard take-away containers, set out on the table between them, Richie having gone out to get it hours ago, neither of them hungry enough to eat it, neither he nor Seth having the stomach for it.

The smell reminds him of Uncle Eddie, hitting hard and sharp, leaving his gut empty, his skin cold all over.

It’s been three years, but Richie doesn’t think they’ll ever move past it, move on like they should. They grew up stunted and wrong, they’ll continue to grow that way, twisted tight and stubborn.

(Eddie bought them the Chinese food the first year he had them, Eddie came home with brown paper bag takeout and a couple of rentals, dropping them down on the table as he peered at the arrivals with caution, Seth’s eyes squinting with suspicion, young and too old at once, not enough innocence left for him to just trust a gift when it's given.

“Boys,” he said, pulling out container after container of food, Richie’s stomach rumbling despite the clench of worry in his gut. “It’s Christmas Eve, and that means take-out and an education in film.” He nudged them towards the containers, encouraging them to take a whole one to themselves, passing out forks as he and Seth moved to settle on the couch--a forbidden act, the one rule of Eddie’s house, but broken for the occasion, the three of them settled together.

Eddie liked holiday-themed b-horror— _Elves_ , _To All A Good Night_ , _Black Christmas—_ all were considered mandatory viewing, new titles added to list as they were released, Richie picking out _Jack Frost_ one year to his delight, the two of them talking about the practical effects and complaining about the rise of CGI, Seth becoming consumed with the story, mocking plot holes and yelling at the screen, the three of them passing containers of food between them until it was all gone, empty boxes piled up on the coffee table.)

Every year, the same—even the five year stretch, Richie crawling his way to Eddie’s and sitting quiet on his couch, eating little as they watched familiar films—Gecko boys classics, the silence speaking for itself, the space between them on the couch wide and empty and too big.

This was worse, in some ways—at least Seth came back, at least Seth was alive somewhere.

Richie puts the food away uneaten, stored away for a later date. The television stays off. Seth follows him into the kitchen and shoves him against the refrigerator, pins Richie with his body as he presses their mouths together, hiccupping against Richie’s lips as he kisses him salty and raw, fingers digging into the back of Richie’s neck until his breathing evens out, resting his forehead against Richie’s until he calms, shoulders slumping, body melting into Richie.

“Sorry,” he says, pushing himself away, but Richie grabs for his elbows, hauling him in as his arms go around Seth—his brother always feeling small like this, when Richie winds around him, hugging him and realizing how _small_ his brother can be.

Seth’s hair is soft against his mouth when he kisses him at the crown of his head, under his cheek when he tucks him under his chin, whispering, “I miss him, too.”

  


 

The distance to the church is walkable, so they go on foot, getting some air as Seth shivers beside him, breath thick, ghosting through the air with each exhale like smoke—Richie thinks about wrapping an arm around him, but it wouldn’t help, him cold-blooded now would leach the rest of the warmth from his brother. But Seth takes his hand, curls Richie’s bare fingers around the cool leather of his gloves, clinging as the move down they walk, careful to avoid shining slicks of ice, the climate here cooler than either of them would like, but far away from any sense of memory.

( _a fresh start_ , Seth had told him, buying a slab of land in Colorado to build a house on, liquidating their assets— _Eddie’s shop, Eddie’s place_ —and Malvado’s, setting up an account for Kisa with three-quarters of the funds, donating them to her, to Scott, and the remains of the culebra community to help rebuild, to help remake as they do the same, the wake of war months behind them but the dust still settling on their skin, new scars to match old marks as Seth does his best to start over, begin again, when neither had been good at that— _all’s we need is a fresh start, brother, wipe the fucking slate clean_ )

It’s not St. Mary’s back in Kansas City, with Father Fitzpatrick growing gray but never budging from his parish, the kind of tenacity Richie admires, but it’ll do, Richie feeling out the services during evening mass once a week, making polite conversation with the parishioners— _clean slate_ , he hears in his head as he lies, getting easier now, a bit of Seth flooding his veins as he spins a story they’ll stick to, the gold band throbbing around his ring finger, Seth chattering at his side.

(it’s been longer than a year since Seth shoved it on his finger, in the heat of a Nevada summer, with a hesitant grin in another Vegas chapel, Richie convincing the employees to do the ceremony with a press of his hand; one thing that’s not a lie, papers legal and signed in ink, notarized, the pair of them bound by more than blood)

Richie doesn’t confess this; he doesn’t confess anything, his secrets to keep, his lies to live with.

Seth takes off his gloves and dips his fingers in holy water—they don’t burn, neither do Richie’s as he does the same, crossing his body, swiping wet fingers over his forehead, his mother’s cross a sudden weight in his pocket. Seth humors him as they settle near the front, keeps quiet as the ceremony begins, sings with him, soft and sweet as the hymns begin, stands and sits and kneels when asked to do so, lets Richie have this when they both know it’s all a joke to Seth, turning and winking at Richie after he takes holy communion.

(Richie stares at the Madonna through the ceremony, his chest heavy as his gut churns and twists, thinks of Kisa in these moments more than not, hears the growing whispers of _la Diosa_ growing by the day, the letter in her script sitting on his desk, unopened. Ximena updating him over the phone as Billy giggles in the background, their Christmas card sitting on the counter—Freddie caught between two women, clutching at him as they grin into the camera, Freddie smiling as his hands hold onto his daughter, taller, her hair longer since Richie had seen her last; _you could be a part of it, Richard—the movement_ , Ximena tells him, and for a moment, she sounds like _her_ , like himself, and he aches—

 _she has Carlos_ , he tells her, not knowing where he’d fit with Carlos there, Carlos her second, Carlos with his five hundred years of history, locking eyes with Seth from across the room; he misses it, a part of him always longing to fit, live free without having to tell some stranger a half truth with a tight smile, but Seth was the choice he’d always make, in the end, even if he felt split in two sometimes)

They don’t stay for the reception, they never do, he and Seth slipping out the back into the cool winter air, his brother’s cheeks turning rosy with the chill.

Richie touches him, stroking his fingers down the edge of his cheekbones, closing his eyes as he feels snowflakes fall down upon them, Seth leaning his warm cheeks into his palms, nosing at his wrist.

“Let’s go home,” Richie says, opening his eyes and meeting Seth’s gaze.

 

 

They don’t make it to their bed— _never do, not on Christmas Eve, not if they’re home_ —Seth walking him back against their front door, Richie working the lock closed at Seth kisses him, hard press of his plush lips, thrusting his tongue in Richie’s mouth, tasting of wine and stale wafers as his hands push Richie’s coat off his shoulders, fingers going for his tie. He yanks Richie forward, walking him into the living room, the both of them shedding layers clothing they’ll have to pick up in the morning. Seth shivers against him, pressing his body to Richie’s after they kick off their shoes, their pants; Seth groans against Richie’s mouth as he pushes Richie down on the floor, the rug scratchy against Richie’s back, loose pine needles pricking his skin, but he lets Seth, grabbing for his hips when Seth crawls on top of him, knees bracketing Richie’s hips.

“You looks so pretty all unwrapped,” Seth says, loose and sloppy, hands running across Richie’s chest, fingertips stroking the small buds of his nipples, Richie choking on his laugh, back arching into the touch, Seth pulling away to quick, his mouth opening up on Richie’s neck, hot and wet, moving toward his ear. “So fucking gorgeous under the Christmas tree, brother.”

Seth glows under the lights, skin sparkling from loose glitter, tinsel getting stuck to his skin as his hand move lower, hooking his hand under Richie’s knee as Seth works his way between Richie’s thighs. He rests their hips together, Seth’s chest warm and thudding against his as Seth coaxes his legs around his waist, inner thighs resting off the edge of his hips—cocks lined up like this, close as sticky as Richie aches to be touched, whining low in his throat, unable to move like this, with Seth on top of him, pinning him against the living room floor.

“You want me?” Seth asks, thrusting his hips once, twice, grinning against Richie’s mouth as he yelps, Seth’s hands on his face, stroking his hair back, kissing the corner of his lips, his jaw, Richie trying to work some friction between them. “Come on, you gotta tell me what you want—it’s Christmas and you can’t get what you want until you _tell me_ , brother.”

Richie’s skin ripples as Seth rubs against the shift, Seth grown to like the change in texture, the scent of his blood spilling out on the air, warm and wet over Richie’s fingers where his claws sliced at his back, dug in. “Just fuck me, Seth, come on,” Richie moans, hips jumping as their cocks slide together.

Seth reaches for something beside him, digging through his pants until his fingers are sudden and slick on Richie’s thigh, painting wet stripes. “You didn’t say the magic word,” he says, palm fitting against the inside of Richie’s thigh. “You gotta say the magic word, Richard.”

“Jesus,” Richie groans, laughing light and quick, legs spreading when Seth’s fingers slip inside him, curling and crooking as Richie rocks down on them. “ _Fuck_ —please, Seth, _please_.”

Seth thrusts his fingers in deep, leaning forward to kiss Richie, opening Richie up as richie licking into his mouth, hands running up Seth’s back to his neck, holding the back of his head. “That’s a good boy,” Seth tells him, rubbing his nose alongside Richie’s, his hips shifting, pushing Richie’s legs up as Richie feels his cock as the edge of him, blunt head pushing him open, the heels of his feet pushing as Seth’s back, urging him inside. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Richie pulls Seth’s hair when he thrusts into him, cock hitting deep as Richie crosses his ankles over Seth’s back, holding close, holding him inside as he grows used to the feeling--the fullness, completion, Seth inside him where he belongs. “Thank you,” Richie whispers, shuddering under Seth, his palms stroking down his ribs, one holding his waist, the other winding around his cock, squeezing and twisting as he thrusts again, building a rhythm, fucking Richie slow but hard, rolling his hips so he slides into the hilt every time—just how Richie likes it, just how he’s always known Richie likes it.

Seth presses his face to Richie’s throat, working his mouth over Richie’s skin, mumbling nonsense words, moaning, yes, baby, you feel so good, you’re so good for me, repeating Richie’s name like a soft chant, something ancient and holy, until he feels on the verge—then Seth stops, breath humid over Richie’s ear.

“You like your present, brother? When are you gonna give me mine?” he asks, giving Richie’s cock a squeeze, but not moving, momentum dying, leaving Richie frustrated and unsatisfied, not wanting to answer this, not wanting to talk about it—Seth trying to get him loose and uncontrolled, catch him with his defenses down.

(Seth only wanted one thing, had told him their first night after the house was built, bit it into Richie’s shoulder as Richie fucked him on the bare hardwood, christening the place as _theirs_ —asked him again, later, slurring his words, drunker than he’d been in months, climbing into Richie’s lap at his desk, lifting his chin and baring his throat; _come on do it, turn me, make me like you_ , he begged as Richie only kissed his pulse, sucked a bruise there, not ready yet)

“Not tonight,” he tells Seth, grabbing him around the shoulders as he switches their positions, Seth rolling underneath him easy, gasping and crying out as Seth hits deeper inside him, his hips falling down on Seth’s cock, Richie pinning him with his palms across his chest. “Not tonight, sweetheart,” he says, whimpering as he rocks his hips, as Seth begins to stroke him again, eyes dark and hooded, gaze cutting through him, opening him up as Seth rolls under him, matching Richie’s new rhythm, his new pace.

Richie kisses him when he gets close again, whining his name into Seth’s lips, grinding his hips down on Seth, rubbing his cock against his palm as Seth works him over, jerking him until he comes all over Seth stomach, spilling over his chest, Seth arching and shuddering under him, coming inside Richie, hot and sticky and alive, Seth’s heart pounding into his empty ribcage.  

He makes a promise, just to himself; _your birthday, I’ll do it then, give me a few more months, just a little time_ , he thinks, sliding off Seth and curling at his side, hand sliding through his come, spreading it across Seth’s skin, rubbing it in, making Seth smell like him, like him and sex. Richie tasting cinnamon on his tongue, sweet and sharp, salted with Seth’s sweat as he licks him, laps at his throat until Seth pushes him away, tucking his head under Richie’s chin, throwing his arm over his back, his leg over his hips as he settles into sleep, Richie staying awake a few moments longer, coveting the soft feeling of Seth breathing beside him.

 

 

Seth drags him to bed before the sun comes up, nudging him awake and herding him up the stairs, tucking them both under the sheets, Seth scooting close until they were skin to skin again. Richie wakes as the sun begins to set, peaking behind the curtain to see the sky turning pink and purple hues over the mountains in the distance, the dying sunlight hitting the ice lined snow, setting off sparks, the smell of baked ham wafting under his nose.

He showers quick, thinking for a moment of foregoing, coming down the stairs in his pajama bottoms, but the bathroom still feel damp from Seth and decides better of it, washing away last night and dressing in soft clothes, saving the suit from another day, letting his hair hang loose.

Seth is in the kitchen, dressed in a soft blue sweater Richie got him and jeans—making it a mess already, but Richie bites his tongue; it’s Christmas, they’ll clean it tomorrow—juggling several dishes at once, the oven hot as he steps near, Seth chopping up vegetables to steam as Richie sneaks behind him, grabbing his wrists as Seth jumps, Richie kissing along the slope of his neck, keeping Seth from cutting himself, licking the swipe of butter Seth had gotten on himself.

“Merry Christmas, brother,” he whispers, letting go of Seth’s wrists slow. “What’re making me?”

“Dinner,” Seth says, turning around and shoving him back. “Now get out before something catches fire.”

Richie laughs, but does as Seth tells him, stealing something sweet and spicy from the pan on the stove on his way out, settling on the couch and turning on the TV, searching for something decent to watch, settling for the _A Christmas Story_ marathon on TBS out of desperation, half-watching, half-listening to Seth work in the kitchen, his eyes skating towards the small collection of presents under the tree.

That’s new, the presents; Seth and him exchanging gifts for the first time in years, a sign of something permanent, something firm and solid, no longer fearful of moving on, no _why bothers_ when they’re going to have to cast it aside soon. Seth starting collecting books months back, filling a single bookshelf that belongs to him, Richie adding to the collection with the few small wrapped packages under the tree. Seth got him a Blu-ray player for his birthday and has begun bringing home a new selection every week, ordering old titles from online letting Richie have a library of films for once, the kind that reminds Richie of Eddie and his dusty VHS tapes filling all the nooks and crannies of his apartment, only neater with slimmer packaging—he can guess what Seth got him.

Seth brings him a plate when the food is done, passing Richie it along with a cold one, laying down a coaster as Seth returns to the kitchen for his own plate and beer. They have a table, but they never eat there, too formal, unable to bring themselves to use it—maybe one day, when Kisa visits, or Freddie with Ximena and Margaret and Billy, maybe it’ll give them an excuse. The coffee table works to balance their plates and rest their drinks, eating side by side from their laps, the movie starting over again mid-meal, Richie trying to savor the food, remember what it tasted like back when he was still human, when he still craved it over blood.

Seth doesn’t take offense when he’s still hungry after cleaning his plate, just pushes his sleeve up and rests against Richie’s side, curling up as Richie breaks the skin of his arm, teeth sinking in with care, sucking in long slow takes, hot cinnamon on his tongue, bright flashes of Christmas memories filling his head, his own memories reflected and refracted, seen from a different angle, from new eyes, only feeding a little and lapping up the excess, pressing a paper towel against the puncture marks him left to staunch the bleeding, Seth resting his head on Richie’s shoulder.

“All full?” he asks as Richie strokes his arm, peeling away the paper towel and tugging Seth’s sleeve down. “Don’t want you to starve on Christmas.”

“I’m fine,” Richie says, lifting his arm and letting Seth fall into the space against his side, wrapping his arm around him. “Thank you.”

Seth pokes his fingers into his ribs, making Richie jump. “Fuckin' better be fine.”

Richie laughs, snuffing out against Seth’s hair, breathing him in, Seth and his shampoo, his cologne splashed across his skin, the scent of dinner clinging to his clothes.

“I’m fine, trust me.”

**Author's Note:**

> come says hi to me on [tumblr](http://richiesseth.tumblr.com)!


End file.
